


A Taste of Sunfloweres

by yeoltidecarol



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Biting, Breeding, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Hair-pulling, Honeymoon, Marking, Marriage, Nipple Play, Rough Sex, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:07:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29368248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeoltidecarol/pseuds/yeoltidecarol
Summary: Towards the end of your honeymoon in Lake Como, Italy, you realize that your fascination with the dawn throughout your life had been a foreshadowing of something much greater. Your fascination, you realize, has led you to the sun itself.
Relationships: Chanyeol x Reader (oc; female)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	A Taste of Sunfloweres

**Author's Note:**

> imported from my tumblr here: https://yeoldontknow.tumblr.com/post/641972863822397440/a-taste-of-sunflowers-m

There were days before Chanyeol, before his strong hands and his soft skin; before the weight of him, before the force of him against pressure points and his too bony joints kept you secure beneath the sheets. There were days when you thought the dawn was your closest companion. **  
**

In those days, you didn’t miss the sleep that eluded you, hardly longed for it at all. Back then, you thought of it much like a stranger. Unnecessary, but welcome, an eclipse and an occasional passing, often present albeit not for long. It was never deep, never restorative, and not nearly enough to satisfy your weary spirit. All it ever truly offered was an exhaustion that settled behind your eyes, a yawn that lasted too long into the afternoon, a slowness to your motions that turned gravity into a challenging obstacle. 

Sleep, ultimately, was rendered little more than a distraction. 

There were other ways, you thought, to move within the night, other ways to utilize your hours amongst the stars. Writing was always your favorite. Learning, too, was a passion, languages coming and going not unlike the moon across the sky. But, ultimately, morning would come slowly, persistently, and you, with a coffee in hand, would watch it burn its brightest against the horizon. 

In those days, you loved the dawn, loved it like your dearest friend. Sometimes, when sleep learned, briefly, to hold you, you would miss the way morning could ignite the sky, and the absence hurt. Clear blue or crystal grey skies past mid-morning were always too empty, too expansive, impossibly close and impossibly far away. The dawn carried closeness and it felt like yours, felt like hope, felt like healing. 

Some days, it felt like love.

It was only after Chanyeol that you realized you were not wrong. 

After Chanyeol, you learned quite quickly: _the dawn always wore his smile._

Morning breaks cautiously over the hills of Lario, slow moving and delicate. Amber light wanders over the land, casting shadows through the trees to dapple the cream bedroom walls, curious in its vermilion. Little by little, it rises to crest the hill tops, a bright beacon of a new day, yet another leaning precariously close to your departure from Italy. 

The sunlight, as it has not been for some years, is not what wakes you. Instead, morning breaks _into_ you, shatters against you, with a sigh. For you, morning is a slow exhale through his nose into your hair, a cascade of damp warmth that makes you shiver. Beneath these sheets, against his chest, your shared heat from the night before - mere hours ago, not long enough to be considered a different time - still endures. Even these embers make a mockery of the sun, and you press yourself against him, his moth, his moon, his wife. 

Years into sharing a bed with him, and still you’re not used to the soul deep comfort his closeness brings. Rarely are you prepared for the calm that cascades beneath his touch, muscles relaxed and pacified by his presence alone. He eases you into it, and when you wake, surprised by the density of sleep itself, few things are tangible in these early hours. Slumber still clouds your vision, blurring the world around you into smears of color; mind still fogged with love and love and _love_ , you rely on the things you can feel to ground you to this moment. 

Chanyeol’s arm lays heavily around your waist, firm and unyielding, the tips of his fingers pressing divots into your skin as he holds you against him. The fullness of his lips, set into a small pout of affection, remain at your temple, unmoved from where he left them just before sleep took him. The tip of his nose burrows into your hair, drinking you in with every inhale, a neediness to the way he remains absolutely all over you that makes your very soul ache. 

He’s always like this, tactile to the limit of urgency. Carding your hands through his hair, you luxuriate in the thickness of the strands, your fingers tracing tiny, imperceptible patterns down towards his neck. Down and down, you scratch your nails into the supple expanse of skin, reaching the border just beyond the tendons of his shoulder. In the mornings you wake before him, when he holds you this tightly, and this desperately, the wing of his shoulder blade is your favourite place to rest your hand. 

Heat from his skin radiates into your palm, further proof the sun lives inside him. As if he can sense you, he hums in relief, strength nestling into his muscles as he holds you closer, tighter, harder, seeking space for himself between your atoms. The intensity of his grip inspires a smile on your features, a sigh of pleasure rolling through your lungs, reverberating against him. All along your nerves, the devotion of his hold lures you back into a liminal space between wakefulness and slumber, your twin heartbeats relishing your union. 

_Chanyeol was shy on your third date, holding your hand with such force you assumed he was ensuring you would feel him all the way into your marrow. He was shy, but his hands gave away the truth of his desires, running his fingers over your wrists, knuckles, and cheeks every time he let himself get close enough. You, conversely, had become addicted to the flavor of his lips, running the very tips of your fingers over the very tips of his ears every time you sucked his bottom lip between your teeth. Unable to help himself, he would fall into you, hungry to a state of terror, uncertain he’d ever have his fill._

_It was too soon, he said, to want you this much or this badly, the blush at his ears burning crimson, all manner of pleasure pooling in the dimple at the corner of his smile. Three dates, and already you wanted him badly enough you had taken to teasing yourself against the seam of your pants as you sat beside him on the subway. Chanyeol could make your mouth run dry, his hand gripping your thigh a sunburn of closeness you had never before experienced. Until that moment, you had never wanted a person to the point of absolute madness, to the point of primal need, certain, even then, that you were learning what it truly meant to eclipse the dawn._

_Consciously, you hadn’t meant to get off the train with him, transferring to a Queen’s bound Q and heading in the opposite direction of your apartment. It took months for you to admit that, perhaps, it had been your plan all along, a secret hidden away in your blood and only rising to the surface once you’d found him. Much the same way your large thumb always seems to replace the o with i when you text him you love him, as though your heart means to tell him you are living inside him, as much him as you are yourself, you felt it only natural to want live your life in his orbit, always swooning and always craving. You got off the train like that, following him instinctually, unwilling to depart from him ever again._

_The morning found you naked, spent, stuck to him in the places where his cum had dried, sated for the first time in years. Slim as he was, the strength in his muscles caught you off guard, the pain of his embrace pressing his hardness into your softness, a bruising of your spirits touching that lasted for days. With his eyes closed and his lips parted, restful, soft, and tender, he continued to show you a passion so enduring it made you shudder._

_That day, you first caught sight of the freckle at the center of his nose, a tiny brown circle so pure and beautiful you started to call it a star. Your sky boy wound himself around you as you gently caressed the slope of his nose, pausing over the freckle, letting it match against the tiny freckle in the center of your middle fingerprint._

_And he sighed, so full of content and bliss, you felt your every lifetime touch his, rejoicing._

_In one moment, your touch was a homecoming, and his arms an embrace so volatile you realized Icarus was never meant to hold the sun. It was a blessing destined only for you._

Beside you, Chanyeol stirs, nose sliding gently down through your hair to bury his face in the crook of your neck. Giggling, your eyes flutter open once again, pulled from your memory - maybe a dream, the images had been laced together like intangible shadows, detached enough you might call them a film, but you remember them; you remember so vividly you feel them all over again. It’s never stopped, not really. Your touch always rekindles this response from within, an instinct of hunger and greed that rouses from the parts of him that make him a beast - the parts of him that remind you, always, that you are utterly, wholly adored. 

Trailing kisses over his nose, the corner of his eye, his ear, feather light and barely there touches just to satisfy the urge that waits behind your teeth, you weave a path all the way to his shoulder where you rest your cheek. Idly, you blink until your eyes clear, the trees and hills of Lario coming into view. Early morning crimson bleeds into fire gold beyond the serenity of the villa’s picture window. Blue sky creeps just beyond the edges, the Lario hills blossoming green and viridescent, illuminated beneath the glow. 

Waves of Lake Como roll leisurely against the shore in the distance, the morning breeze hurrying the waves forward and ushering them through the open window. Every now and then, their kiss against the sand becomes a whisper of congratulations, rhythmic and celebratory. All this nature not unlike music; all this music, and every sound a reminder you have won the sun. In his arms, you have found happiness.

Sunlight breaks over land, a beacon that makes your eyes sting, and so you look away, directing your attention to the paradise that has made a home of this suite for the last thirteen days. Just behind Chanyeol’s shoulder, the mess of his suitcase remains open, clothes scattered - the ones discarded the night before are borderless, beyond the boundary and nowhere close to the case, mixed with yours as you removed them in haste. They lay together in a crumpled heap, your garments his much the same way your soul is his. Still, the sight of his emptied, disorganized case makes you frown. 

All that lays within, and without, is wrought with the agitation of a life kept on pause in favor of paradise. His shirts, weighed into the floor by conversations about rent, whether or not to change the internet, grocery lists half scrawled on the refrigerator door. Your jeans, cold with the chill of overtime shifts, nights too tired to drown in his skin, questions of job changes, car payments, and the effort of finding a house big enough to fit all the love in your chest. The hardwood floor, the plush leather chair, the gateway between the window and the balcony are covered with these realities, fabrics of a life that is yours but has become distant in the last two weeks. You would abandon it all if it meant you could stay here, in this bed, unable to ever wake up from Italy and the warmth in the press of his hands.

With a long sigh, Chanyeol burrows into your skin, pressing deeper, further. It sets his shoulder rocking in the wake of his breath, your hand shifting along the bone to maintain your position, cradling him against you, against the sun. The morning gold catches the light of the silver rings wrapped around your finger, the large sapphire and radiant band glinting against its twin counterpart. You lengthen your fingers, extending them in a long stretch that makes the rings gleam, a shimmer of daylight formidable in its splendor. Their presence adds a heaviness to the digit you had not expected, a weight of risk, and trust, and eventual ugliness. 

Your mouth is full with the names you’ve come to call him: sun king, sunflower, sky boy, lover, partner, _husband_. The last one is new, not a name you have invented or chosen but a title, a proclamation, a signature on a piece of paper binding his name, his blood, to yours. This new name is an ending as much as it is a beginning, an act of service to move and grow and change at his side - mixing life and mixing blood, uncertain in this closeness for it is all terribly, remarkably unfamiliar. This name is an embrace of small, eventual achievements of the mundane - always present and always aware of the endless, abyssal infinity. 

You call him husband as a promise of a morning coffee that will always be made perfectly, shirts hung next to yours in order of preference, a confidence in knowing he is the first person you want to tell all your nothings to, and you the same for him. You call him husband as the acceptance of impending silence, the phone call after a doctor’s appointment, bitter teamwork in shoveling snow, and the beauty of wanting nothing more, forever, than to fight with him, in the permanent and perpetual display that you are still choosing him. You call him husband as though the word itself is unfamiliar, even though you’ve called him husband since the first night he slept in your bed.

It was an accidental thought, as much a product of passing thoughts on fleeting a wind as the product of a wide smile and sore hips. His large hand cupped your breast, the fullness of his lips still pressed to your shoulder as though you were his sanctuary, and even as you felt the beginning of a new life lurking curiously just beyond the precipice of the bed you did not shudder. Smiling to the crown of his head, you giggled at the absence of worry, at the sublime luxury of feeling a moment last for a lifetime, all weight and tension and pain removed from your limbs. They’d departed for another version of you while you called him husband, deciding that life alone and without him is a hateful thing, an experience you had no wish to discover.

Chanyeol clung to the word wife as he slipped the silver band over your finger, fifteen days ago in a world that feels so far away. He clung to it, held it in his mouth so tightly it became thick with meaning. Chanyeol called you wife and smiled into it, relaxing into the syllable the same way he relaxes into the concept of simplicity. Each morning he would wake beside you, share a meal, feed you, be fed by you, and sit close enough to you the air in your lungs would be the same. Each evening he would go to bed beside you, talk with you of all the small things that comprised the day, waiting for them to dissipate and be forgotten. Each night, he would call you wife, feeling as though every day was different than the last, new and changed, subtle enough the following morning would be the first moment of the rest of his life.

Over and over. Always.

You wonder now, turning your hand in the light and still not used to the way your skin looks when it is decorated by things other than the red marks of his teeth, if other couples feel this way in the liminal space between a _wedding_ and a _marriage_. 

A wedding is an arrival, a destination to a fixed point after which there is a life unknown, unaccounted for. Weddings are so often the culmination of obstacles and unmakings, but marrying Chanyeol felt logical, a conclusion to several years that felt no more difficult than your years alone, perhaps even easier. Marriage, you think, is different. The sweetness of loving him has not yet worn off, as you have been told one day it will. Your life, with a real human being who is flawed and often temperamental and occasionally blunt to a point of insensitivity has not yet truly started. 

But you are here, amidst an after and traipsing to a start, thinking of your mother; those who could have laid here before you, or those who will after you; the first person who ever told another they would be with them even in death, and wondering if they, like you, view the hardship of uncertainty as a triumph. They must. You’re certain they must have, but then, not everyone sleeps with, laughs with, kisses, bites, and eats the sun. Perhaps if everyone held something cosmic in their arms, marriage would feel as unanimously celebratory as weddings.

‘What are you thinking about?’

Chanyeol’s voice is an earthquake against your skin, a rumble that starts somewhere within the ether until you are drenched in it. Thick and heavy with the remnants of sleep, the exhaustion from his exertion the night before has put gravel in the center of his throat, giving it texture, each word a kiss pressed languidly into your soul. Still, he maintains all his softness, fading like a sigh at the end of his question, warm and sweet and serene.

Exhaling through his nose, the warmth of his breath travels from your neck, down your shoulders, into the space between your body and the bed where it nestles, heating parts of you long untouched. Already, energy has started to rouse in his veins, toes wiggling in comfort as his grip tightens around your waist, adjusting. All this, and still his eyes remain closed. You have not felt the movement of his long eyelashes, have not felt the real tension of wakefulness consume him, all of him remaining pliant.

Years with him and without fail the first sound of his voice puts a smile in your cheeks. It’s an unstoppable force, the bliss of another shared moment or hour with him inspiring the euphoria in your blood. At his side, you blossom, and in the cascade of his deep voice you grow beyond mortality into something closer to perfect. And so you hold him close, sigh alongside his breath and let your hands map, once again, the contours of his skin.

‘You’re awake?’ you mumble, more a whisper of sound and speech than anything else. 

Selfishly, you grieve for the lost moments in which you get to watch morning break over him alone, knowing it would never have lasted very long. Beneath your hands, he is warm from the sunlight, bathed in gold as it pours over him. In your hands, he is incandescent, as much a product and illusion of the daylight that filters through your curtains as the harsh reality of the night hours, the hungry hours, that consumes you both. He wears them equally, the sun in his skin and the midnight darkness trapped in his hair and his eyes, a cosmos of love and ardor made manifest.

Nodding in affirmation, he hums, voice a summer storm that rains against your sternum. ‘I could hear the change in your heartbeat.’ 

There is a brief pause during which he lets his teeth graze over the flesh of your collarbone. He is terribly close to the ample expanse of your breast, pushing his free hand beneath his torso to let his fingers tease at the flesh just below it. His nails graze the curved slope, a shiver running through your nerves as he sends the hair of your arms to their ends. 

‘What were you thinking about?’ he repeats, as though he has done nothing at all. 

Your eyes flutter closed as you lick your lips, tilting your head just slightly to pay him back in kind. The bones of his shoulder clash against your teeth, an act of uncovering the places where you have worked to carve your name over the years. Chanyeol moans quietly, boyishly, whimpering at the pain of your canines digging into the sensitive parts of him. As though it hurts, as though he will not beg for more, as though he is innocent and you are the shadow that consumes the sun, his own glorious eclipse. Mumbling an expletive to himself, he extends his hand and fully cups your breast in his large palm, sucking at your sternum until he’s certain his lips will leave a bruise. 

Gleefully, you laugh, a pensive and distant sound that mingles erotically with an exclamation of hunger, thrilled that you will share these marks. You always like it when your skin is reddened and purpled by him, and he, too, always seems to stand taller, and walk faster, when his blood is broken by your touch. 

‘Lots of things.’ You speak with your mouth still against him, the heat of your tongue etching your words into his pores. 

Kissing at your neck, Chanyeol begins to stir, roused by the shared greed of your bodies. With each touch of your lips, each exhale against your skin, his hand massages your breast firmly. Nipple caught between his knuckles, he squeezes the nub, in rhythm, the pleasure rolling down your spine as you rock your hips against his. The tip of his tongue laps at your neck, erection growing steadily against your hip.

The enduring ache between your folds throbs again, slit of your cunt growing slick with each press of his cockhead against your thigh. It’s nothing like how it was last night, the slowness of this building arousal such a contrast to the way you were beastly for him the night before. Legs spread wide, you used two fingers to separate the folds of your pussy, inviting his hands, his tongue, his cock inside your core. He’d gripped your hips with force as he fucked into you, over and over even after you had cum around him saying you had more in you to give him, claiming that he wanted it all, all of you, always, until you both hurt. Your cervix still aches from where he had been just hours before, but you want him again, insistent and urgent, more and more each time he rocks his hips against you to chase the pleasure. 

If he can feel the way he builds the juices of your core just by existing, just by touching your breast, just by breathing against you, he does not mention it. You’re almost sure he can, smug as he always is, aware of just how completely he controls the will of your body, but instead he kisses you again, insatiable. 

‘Tell me,’ he whispers, and you laugh once more, amused by his persistence to maintain your normal morning routine. 

He can always tell when you wake too early, interrupted by thoughts or fears or the ideas that seem to flourish in the hours just before sunrise. It’s your heartbeat, he says, the change he never seems to miss, meaning he will wake with you, beside you, ready to listen to everything on your mind. Countless midnight mornings have been spent wrapped around him, sharing the idle images that pull you from sleep. He will stroke your hair, kiss your forehead, write songs for you, write lullabies, write books, and you, with your head against his chest, will fall back into slumber, emptied of all the things that weighed you down. 

He’s good at this, a perfect match for racing thoughts that so often chase the sleep from your bones. Chanyeol was born with a mind just as wild, just as ravenous, and so only he knows the intimacy behind the anguish. Only he knows how to soothe it all back to silence. Somehow, Chanyeol has been blessed with the gift of reducing all your minute anxieties to passing, empty philosophies which require little of you, placating them into a comforting absence with a kiss.

Rolling away, you fall onto your back, moving your hand over his neck and up into his hair. Idly, you stroke the strands, content to watch the hills of Lario ignite behind the peak of his ear. 

‘Our wedding,’ you admit, and he hums happily, pressing an open mouthed kiss against your sternum as his palm roughly massages your breast in praise. He celebrates the memory by himself, an echo of the rapture you felt only moments before. ‘The sunrise, _this_ sunrise,’ you continue, fingertips teasing the small hairs at the base of his neck. Behind him, Lario is green and rich, but in your arms, Chanyeol is every colour, a prism of your wanting. ‘Six months from now. Eight years from now. Yesterday. Three years ago. The flight home.’

Languidly, he guides his hand up from your breast, dragging his fingers over your chest and to your neck, resting there, not as a threat but, as a comfort. You tilt your head back, the smile tucked in the corner of your lips begging to erupt in praise, but he moves before you can, cupping your jaw in his palm. You feel this touch all through your nerves, a waterfall that reaches the gaps between your ribs, the empty expanse where cartilage in your knees used to live before an injury in your youth, the space between your spine and shoulders - places once burned by the summer sun, reverberating because he chooses to touch you now. He walks his hand over the slope, tender in this caress that guides him up and back, splaying his fingers behind your ear to trace mindless patterns with his thumb over your cheek. 

Raising himself on his elbow, Chanyeol regards you with eyes full of life, as though he had not been sleeping, as though he has never slept, left in wait for your praises. For a long while, he remains this way, considering you with an adoring smile that, really, is not a smile at all. Rather, it is merely an expression of wonder and ardor, the expression of a man trapped in the rapture of his longing. Were it for anyone else, perhaps they would find emptiness, but his mind races, a shimmer in his irises that gives away his efforts of translating your answers, connecting them as a puzzle that leads to the truth. 

It hurts to not touch him when he looks at you this way, as he so often does, a confirmation that you matter enough to be wholly and completely understood. Chanyeol always looks down into you, deep enough there are no shadows left untouched, and the feel of him there, where nothing ever is, tightens your muscles and puts an ache in the caverns of your heart. And so you mirror his actions, letting your palm rest at the side of his cheek and running your fingers over the trips of his ear. A low rumble of delight blossoms in his chest, the music of the morning that has a flush heating your skin. Closing his eyes, he kisses your mount of venus, pressing himself against your touch, eager for more. 

Your free hand grips his wrist, fingers wrapping around the tattoo of your birth flower, gliding your nails over the rich, black ink as he continues to look and look his fill. The carnation is held in perpetual bloom, petals unfurling to greet the sun as the stem extends down his forearm. Every time you touch it, you remember the day he got it, remember the way he demanded you go with him, that you watch your essence mark him eternally. You didn’t understand why he wanted it, not really, questioned why he wouldn’t get something to match the guitar on his right arm, why he would choose a flower over music - really, why he would choose you. 

Two years in, and you were in love past the point of reason - certain, as you are the moon will rise and the sun will set, that you would love him until the ash of your marrow seeped back into the soil to find him again - but you still were not confident it was the same for him. 

The sound of the tattoo gun was an electric shock, making you jump as you watched the first black marks stain his skin. Chanyeol took your hand in his and squeezed, not because he was afraid but because he wanted you to witness yourself in blossom. Looking you in the eye, he told you that even if it ended, even if you left, he would want you with him, would always want a memory of the snow in summer, a winter that persisted just for him. He wanted you in every season, the magic of a first snow which never dissolved - your heart against his veins, eternally.

You wanted to marry him then, almost let the words crawl from your tongue to settle against his ears, eager and devoted. You wanted to tell him you would follow, always close behind, unafraid of the unknown for you would be holding him tight.

Kissing his way down your arm, he peers at you through the thick curtain of his eyelashes, a coy smile nestling into the dimple of his cheek. Hair falls into his eyes as he moves downward, each touch of his lips a fire in your veins. Reaching the crook of your elbow, he nips at the soft skin, sliding downward in the bed and along your body, before lowering his lips to the nipple his knuckles had teased to attention. 

You arch upward, hand falling to the crown of his head, willing him to stay there, gloriously. He swirls his tongue over the bud, laving what he can. The heat of his mouth inspires a tremble in your muscles, legs moving beneath the sheets as your hips press and wiggle into the bed. Chanyeol giggles against you, amused, but does not remove his mouth from where he rolls the tip of his tongue over your pert nipple, enraptured in his wanting and feasting, and you shudder with the force of his voice as it penetrates your soul. Unwinding his arm from your waist, he presses his hand against your hip and holds you in place. 

The wet heat of his tongue against your nipple is molten lava, replaced instantly by the unyielding edge of his teeth. His bite is ephemeral, a whisper of power against the bud, and you cannot hold back your moan, lips parting in a prayer of his name. You feel him smile, tongue returning once again, and the change in texture has wetness pooling between your folds. You are always slick with his touches, roused to wetness by the mere thought of him, but he has always been in complete control of your body, knowing which touches will keep you drenched in wait for him. 

Releasing your nipple with a pop, he slides his hand away from your jaw, down your skin to press it inward with his thumb. Shaking the hair from his eyes, he smirks, lips red and wet, swollen past their usual plumpness.

‘What do you think of right now?’ he questions, somehow sounding so innocent and young, even as his eyes feast on the heat that paints your skin. 

The sun pours in from the window, casting a halo of light around his head, and your mouth runs dry, awed by the sight of him. With one of his legs draped over yours, your legs remain pressed together, the wetness dripping from your cunt trapped in place, but it builds, incrementally, all your desire pooling in your belly and gathering between your thighs in wait.

‘Right now?’ 

Your voice has been reduced to a croaked whisper, voice unwilling to interrupt the magic that has gathered in the room, the magic that has existed since the moment you arrived. Silly, for he had you screaming his name not two nights ago, all fours on the bed as he cupped your ass and spanked it raw as he fucked you with vigor. Nothing, you are certain, could disrupt the cloister of wanting you have built within these four walls. But still, you whisper, feeling that this vision is different. Your sun king admires you with all of himself, a look so full of craving and yearning you wish to bare yourself for him, wanting to be claimed completely.

Slowly, he nods, licking his lips as he lowers his head. ‘This moment, and only this,’ he whispers, matching your volume. 

His breath is the first thing that reaches your skin, the first thing you feel as you regard the crown of his head, all dark hair mussed from sleep. First it is his breath, and then it is his tongue, open mouthed kisses pressed fervently in the center of your throat. Like this, he is asking for your voice, all your promises and all your wishes, kissing and kissing until he begins to suck at the skin. This, too, will bruise, the marks from three days ago when he did this same thing already starting to fade. He reignites them beneath his tongue, demanding that they remain, that the world sees you are his, that the ring on your finger is not just a promise of fidelity but a promise of _belonging_.

‘I think right now…’ 

It is all you can manage, eyes falling closed as he kisses you. Your arms wind around his shoulders, nails digging into his muscles, leaving your own marks. The hands at your hips keeps you in place, the restlessness of your arousal building in your muscles and turning all your immobile frustrations into the misery of emptiness at your core. You are desperate to be full of him, no longer embarrassed that such simple, slight touches like this could make you desperate to be full of him. Worse, you suppose, that you can feel the metallic pressure of his own wedding band pressing diligently into your skin, a reminder that he is yours just as permanently.

There is nothing, really, to be ashamed of, for it is only him that you are this needy. Before Chanyeol, in the empty days, there were men and some women, who touched you like they knew what it meant to behold a season. In your body, little was inspired, the arousal in your cunt more a product of your mental prowess and imagination than their indelicate, ineffective touches. The same way not everyone gets to behold the sun, not everyone is capable of withstanding a winter of rough yearning. 

Only Chanyeol has been able to come close enough, melting you into the hungry, beastly thing you are.  


Only Chanyeol.

Sensing your growing impatience, he rolls over you fully, pulling his lips from your neck to regard you with wide eyes. Your throat burns with his absence, echoes of where his teeth had been still stinging as the blood that lies beneath shatters in the wake of such passion. Slowly, he parts your legs, the relief coming to you little by little as he settles between the gap, letting your juices drip into the bed. Cages between his arms, you hold onto him tightly, eyes opening and vision blurred. 

He, too, has grown flushed, the tips of his ears a deep crimson as his erection presses haphazardly into your thigh. It is so close, dangerously close, to where you long for him the most, your walls clench around nothing, willing the tip of his cock to come forward, to penetrate the barrier that keeps you both separated, hoping he will merge with your atoms beyond the laws of physics. 

Now, he unleashes the full strength of his smile, hovering above you with a glimmer in his eyes that speaks of threat and danger, a knowing deep into his blood of just how fully you adore this position. The thrill of him above you, exerting his dominion, awash in light, bright enough the sky could give him wings, is a glory you crave to witness each morning. When you straddle his hips, there is passion and there is power, but locked between his arms you become a flowering creature. You, his sunflower, the sheets of your bed a spring morning that comes over and over again, the vision of his face and arms and shoulders exalted is the first language you ever learned to speak.

Walking your hands up his arms and to the shoulder blades that protrude from his back, you mold your palms to them, clutching him as though preparing to take flight. He is motion and action, the very essence of life beneath your touch. And it would be so easy to lower your grip, to cup the muscles of his ass and push him exactly where you crave him most. It would be so easy to guide his cock past the barrier of your folds, to take the dominion and sanctity of this position and let yourself become holy under his tongue. It would be so easy to rush, but when he sits above you like this, both angel and demon and all yours, you always take pause.

When he sits above you like this, you lay in wait, feeling as though you are learning to walk amongst the clouds.

Chanyeol awaits your answer with a patience he does not provide others, a patience he reserves only for you, content to admire your nakedness. His lips are still chapped from all your kisses the night before, new kisses from this morning, a thirst that never quite leaves him, but he remains still. Releasing his bones, you guide your hands up over the joints and tendons, cupping his cheeks and letting your fingers rest at his temples. Idly, you wonder if you would even need to answer, the caresses you have shared over the last few weeks transgressing the forms of language altogether. 

Honesty has been laced into your fingerprints, little truths, small truths, tiny nuances of life and hours shared imprinted from your skin into his. It is likely he does not need you to speak, but you do anyway, because you need his voice to fill the room once again. Hardly any time has passed and you miss it all over again, miss the way he makes sense of all your complexities, the way he understands even when the words are wrong or, somehow, insufficient.

‘I think,’ you whisper, throat feeling tight; a protest at giving words that might not need to be given, ‘right now is heaven.’

Chanyeol simply hums, a sound of agreement that works its way between the oxygen in the nodes of your lungs. You breathe this sound, breathe the flutter of his eyelashes, and the massage of his thumb into the flesh of your hips. 

‘Then why don’t you stay in it?’ He cocks his head to the side as he speaks, pressing into your palm, not wholly out of desire to feel you but, from the effort of offering a different perspective, a new outlook that exists beyond you. 

You’ve always envied him of this, envied the way he lets himself linger in pleasure longer than you. Just like the sun, he never expects the clouds and just persists, tearing his way through the shadows in the effort of maintaining the beauty of the glow.

‘Because we can’t stay in it.’ The truth is a knife blade, an intrusion that cuts its way through the softness of hope and joy. ‘We leave in two days.’ 

In all your years together, you have been alone with Chanyeol. You have been alone in his bed, and alone in his home, and alone in the home you eventually came to share. You are bound together, and you are a unit, but you have never been cut off from the world - separated from all the rest of the lives you have shared with Chanyeol. Your phones have remained off since you landed, all pictures on cameras with interchangeable lenses, and all memories recorded in a leather bound journal he gave you for your birthday. He, too, has written his excitement onto notes - stray napkins, receipts pulled from the back pocket of his trousers, stolen menus from restaurants, and the backs of polaroids he takes when the mid afternoon sun makes images appear far more rich than they are. 

He’s made music out of this retreat and you have written novels of love and longing, and absolutely none of these things have been witnessed by anyone other than yourselves. Not once have you been _this_ alone with him, and the reality of sharing him again in forty-eight hours is a sour anguish on the back of your tongue. The noise of the world creeps in as you think of it - the factual existence and complexities of airplanes and baggage claims, of other people encircling the universe of love you have made together as though they have any claim to it. 

The truth, you think, is that you have never been so alone with him, and the loneliness is hardly empty at all, the result becoming complete togetherness. The truth, you know, is that you are dreading having to share him again, with friends and family and work. This is the reality you would like to leave behind, to ensure that there will only be you and him, the whispers of one another echoing together for all time.

Still, the acceptance that this fantasy will have to be dismantled is a wound against the malleable pieces of your organs, a tear that hurts as much as bleeding, and so you speak before he can, wanting to delay it a little longer. In this moment, in this reality, the unyielding hardness of Chanyeol’s erection presses fervently against your thigh, and this, you feel, deserves the devotion of your attention.

Swallowing, you smooth your expression over, cocking your head to the side as you run your thumbs over his eyebrows, feeling the smoothness of his skin. You’ve taken to this habit while he sleeps, tracing his delicate piece with equally delicate touches, leaving him undisturbed, but he likes it when you do it. He likes it when he can feel it. ‘What were you dreaming about? You looked so peaceful when I woke up. I just wanted to hold you for a while.’

His eyes remain closed, basking in the affection of your touch, slow strokes over his eyes that have him biting his lip with a keening whine. Impatient, grateful, a myriad of emotions that are simultaneously fleeting and intangible pass over his features, he grinds his hips against yours, applying enough pressure to your mound you are left gasping. Thirst for him worms its way into your mouth, tongue parched and eager for the sat of his skin. As he moves, the muscles of his torso flex with the effort of this movement, a ripple of strength that extends out from his ribs, into his arms, and shoulders. 

The mere sight of it roots itself inside you, a heady concoction that mingles with your chemistry. In one swift motion he has stirred a rush of blood to your chest and cheeks, a cascade of wetness that drips ceremoniously from your slit. You struggle against him, against his hands, brought to life by his touch, and work to meet him in an upward thrust, your cunt willing him to work his way inside. There is a cavernous emptiness at your core that builds with each smirk at the corner of his lips, with each press of his slick cockhead against the apex of your thigh - perilously close to where you crave him, need him - that only gives rise to a whimper of defeat. Your weakness is given away beneath the power in his joints and knuckles, the power he carries within the small dimple that emerges with his apparent victory.

Easing out of your hands, he maintains this impish smile as he lowers slightly, slowly, just enough to deftly kiss the exposed tendon of your neck. It’s one of his favorite places to press his lips, a thin patch of skin there he can feel the movement of your blood and the drum of your pulse; a place for complete control, a place to witness the influence he maintains over your reactions. Still, he does not linger there.

Chanyeol continues onward, leaving a trail of breath down your neck and sternum, a journeyman in search of his ultimate treasure - you, your lungs, the vital things that keep you living. Groaning, he catches the erect nipple of your other breast, exposed, lonely, and neglected, and licks at it with the tip of his tongue. Winding your hands in his hair, you hold him there, eyes glazed over as you peer at the ceiling, numb to anything that is not the feel of him against you. The scorching heat of his tongue has you shivering, overcome with the sensation of separating from your nerves, burning into little more than his shadow. Relentlessly, he kisses and kisses at your nipple, raising it to its reddened peak before he rolls it between his teeth. 

_‘Chanyeol.’_

His name, little more than a pant of breath from the depths of your core, tumbles from your lips to the crown of his head. You’re certain, now that he can feel how drenched you are, the slick juices of your wanting leaking in rivulets from your lips and giving away the intensity with which you need him. You are desperate to be full of him, the memory of his thick girth stretching the walls of your cunt is tactile, a feeling you are never free from. Scratching your nails into the soft hairs at the base of his neck, you want him to be aching for you, too, want him marked and swollen with the ravenous intent of your longing.

‘You,’ he murmurs finally, breath hot as cinders as he releases your nipple from his teeth. The inflection of force in his voice offers the syllable echoes of bone deep starvation, a rasp to its edges that says he would eat your heart should you let him. 

‘You, in your wedding dress,’ he continues, pressing his cheek against your breast to listen to your heartbeat. ‘how it made you look like a goddess.’ Once more, he rolls his hips, and this time the head of his cock shifts, smearing precum over your slit. Your whispered proclamations to divinity are swallowed by his groan, both of you wanting him to be sheathed all the way to your cervix. The wetness of your juices meets his tip, and he releases a gasp of pleasure, teeth grazing your full breast as he glides his cock against it. You are making a mess of the expensive sheets, but neither of you care. ‘How I couldn’t wait to have my hands on you. How I had to fuck you in the bathroom just to make it through the night.’

The devil lives in the epicenter of your laugh, a dark chuckle that comes from mutual assured destruction, a low expression of sheer, unadulterated delight at the knowledge of your own power. It burrows into his hair, the pores of his skin, and he whimpers in affirmation of your command and control of his arousal. Arching your back, you press your breasts into his cheek and chest, demanding that he feel you, an unforgiving experience of your femininity.

‘It wasn’t a wedding dress,’ you clarify with a coy smile he will hear rather than see. Running your fingers back up through his hair, you grab hold of the thick strands and tug roughly, his eyes falling shut as he offers a teasing thrust. Hair still encased in your hand, you lift his head and beam in the effort of reflecting the sun, all teeth and eroticism, licking your lips as though preparing for the feast of his flesh. ‘It was a jumpsuit.’

Biting his lip, Chanyeol allows himself to remember the jumpsuit you wore in place of a dress. You’d said you wanted to be comfortable, wanted to be yourself even on a day that was meant to be extraordinary - for you are extraordinary, and the day itself mattered little when compared to the majesty of your union. It had taken weeks to find one you liked, a jumpsuit the color of wine and with a cut low enough he would be forced to stare at the ample curve and rise of your breasts throughout the day. It was not vulgar, not by any means, but it hugged your curves and made you feel limitless in both beauty and potential - the potential to tear your sun king asunder. 

Moaning at the recollection, he juts his cock against the slit of your cunt in chastising punishment. The bulbous head of his cock very nearly slips between the swollen flesh of your lips, and his grip on your hips tightens.

‘Oh _fuck_ ,’ he exclaims, turning to bite down on the flesh of your breast. 

Even beneath your hands you can feel the taught restraint of his muscles as he holds back, delaying the gratification of your shared pleasure just a little longer. As long as you’ve known him, he’s always liked it when neither of you are able to sustain your patience, when your coupling is more an eruption than the slow promise of inertia; when your desire to have him inside you, deep enough you think you could taste him on your tongue, is an eruption of force strong enough to burn you to ash.

Reclaiming the threads of his authority, Chanyeol repeats the motion, feeling his cock become dampened by the thick juices of your cunt, and drops his lips to your mouth, swallowing the moan you can no longer contain. In unison, you exclaim into one another’s mouths, gorging yourselves on the noises you make when transgressing euphoria. With his tongue, he thrusts into your mouth the way you wish he would with his cock, sucking your voice into his soul as your own tongue reasserts its claim over his spirit. Eager, you let your hands become burned as wax, a moisture growing to your palms as you move from his head and shoulders to his ribs, scratching at his sides, along the bones, to feel him quake against you.

He pulls away just slightly, still licking at the parts of your mouth he can reach through his gasping, your caress his greatest unmaking. Lapping at your tongue, your lips, your nose, he separates from you and catches his breath. Futile, you think, for you have not once caught yours. 

‘It was _red_.’

Time has left his features undeterred, keeping him young and soft and sweet as the hair falls back into his eyes. His complaints are weak, at best, mild - though, it is not a complaint at all. The flush at his cheeks, his ears, his neck gives away how very little disdain he has for the color. Instead, he airs his grievances for the way your body draped in red seems to render him utterly shameless, woefully so, the shade not a death wish but a prayer for life. You, in red, always sends him to his knees. 

‘You love it when I wear red.’ Massaging his skin, you press your fingers into the gaps between his ribs, making a home for yourself where no one else has been, or will be ever more. ‘You know I love it, too.’

Chanyeol lifts himself up, raising his waist just enough to let air through the spaces that now separate you, and you are left keening at the absence. The loss of warmth and connection is a disruption, a pout overtaking your features in derision, but he tilts his head to the side, enraptured in a state of wide eyed admiration. Beneath this gaze, you still, feeling your breath dissolve in its motion through your lungs. He takes his time walking over the shape and form of your body, the sun working its way through the room to leave patches of old on the peaks of his cheekbones, and the sheer sight of him leaves you bereft.

When he looks at you like this, you feel him all over you as though he lives on the inside, beneath and within your bones. You feel him everywhere he is not, everywhere there has been absence and nothingness, the wonder and awe of his attention a sort of magic unto himself, a blessing found only in light. 

‘I’d have married you in our pajamas.’ 

He’s firm when he speaks, more awake and cleartoned than he has been all morning, the weight and seriousness causing you to press yourself into the bed, making room for the impact. Chanyeol lives in a permanent state of conviction and ardor, and you cling to him, your hands tightening over his ribs to clutch his beating heart. The words raise gooseflesh along your arms, your body always overcome by him.

‘I would have married you in our band tee shirts, in our Halloween costumes. It didn’t matter. But _you wore red_.’

Nodding, you soften in the aftermath of his admission, agreeing with your full chest as you lean up to press your lips against his. You’d have married him in your living room, on your couch, alone, with no witnesses; you’d have married him at the music festival where you spent your fifth anniversary, at the winter cabin in Hokkaido where he taught you to snowboard, on the shore of the beach - any beach - accepting the nuisance of sand, absolutely everywhere, for the promise of life, absolutely all of it, with him.

Smiling against his lips, slide your legs along his, up and over to settle against his hips. ‘So, you were remembering.’ 

With your legs resting at his sides, the new angle has his cockhead aligned with your entrance, the tip of it resting at your core like a threat. Anticipation and adrenaline send your walls clenching in welcome, the phantom limb of his cock buried inside you and pressed against the entrance to your womb. As though he can feel you tightening around him, he shifts his hips, letting his cock glide languidly up your slit and down again, teasing the hood of your clit without offering any satisfying pressure at all. 

The threads of his control are slipping, evident in the way his arms shake and his breath falls heavy through his nose and parted lips. Precum mixing with the slick moisture of your cunt, he continues the teasing motion until his name becomes a weight in your chest, a plea of urgency that gives away how terribly needy you are.

‘Chan -’

He cuts you off by applying direct pressure to the hood of your clit with the tip of his cock, and he lingers there until your gasp of pleasure dissolves into memory. Eyes squeezing shut, you cling to him tightly, feeling the waves of arousal traverse your nerves and leaving you shaking. Rocking your hips against his, you urge him lower, wanting him harder, deeper, certain your impatience for him will reduce you to madness. But your motions are futile, serving only to press his cock harder against your clit.

‘I would argue it was a dream.’ 

His voice adopts a darkness you have grown all too familiar with, an edge to his desire that leaves you bracing for him to unmake you. With his teeth, his tongue, his lips, his voice, he knows all the threads to tug at your seams to send you cascading into him, and the weight behind his voice says he is fearless, unwilling to lose at this game. Chanyeol seeks to have you shattered beneath him, and your eyes open wide, hearing the intent that lives at the back of his throat.

Keeping his eyes trained on yours, he gradually eases his hand from your hip, your skin still reverberating and stinging with the echoes of his tight hold. Wordlessly, he regards you, the covetous yearning that swims in his dark irises utterly profound, his gaze alone stopping your breath in your lungs. Sustaining the light pressure with the head of his cock to your clit, he runs the tips of two fingers over your slit, idle strokes of teasing touches that smear your wetness over the swollen lips of your pussy. Brow furrowing, you inch downward on the mattress, doing your best to press yourself against his hand, to force him past your lips and into your core, but with each stroke he eases his hand away, keeping this touch feather light.

Above you, Chanyeol smirks, all knowing mischief. It is an expression full of sin, a letter away from the sun yet somehow one and the same. 

‘You should have seen yourself.’ 

Were it not for the strain lurking behind his words, keeping his voice taught and deeper than it usually is, you would have believed him to be unaffected by his ministrations. The hardness of his cock is solid, unwavering, tangible proof of his arousal but he thrives on being in control, on being the last to give in, on being the lord and master of your bodily responses he sometimes can go for long periods without letting his control break. It’s been different since you’ve been on your honeymoon, as though the promise of forever has eradicated his efforts of maintaining pretense, leaving behind an unruly desire to have his needs fulfilled over and over again, your lifetime his greatest victory.

‘No,’ you manage, voice thick and distant as you shake your head. All vitality of your voice has absconded from you, seeking a universe in which your cunt is full to the brim with him, full and leaking with his cum. ‘I got to see _you_.’

A light flush creeps into his ears, illuminated by the sunlight as they turn pink in the wake of your praises. You had worn red, knowing full well how it would make him feel, simply because Chanyeol in any shade is a beauty so absolute you often forget yourself in the presence of it. Looking at him as you walked down the aisle, you felt as though you had wished his existence into life, had dreamed him, had fabricated a world in which he was yours from the part of you that is him. Chanyeol wore black, traditional, elegant, graceful, and you, doing your best to maintain your slow pace, felt gravity shift. Chanyeol wore black and you fell in love all over again, swooning into the utmost promise of joy.

But he continues his teasing, his fingers slick with your essence, your cunt leaking into his hand in eager retribution, and you grind upward into his touches. Knitting your brow together, you pout, petulant.

‘I’ll have you know,’ a threat, a warning, your words heavy with foreboding, ‘if you’re going to touch me like that, you better do something about it.’ 

Cocking his head to the side, he narrows his brow and removes his hand entirely. Frustrated, you release a hiss of breath through your teeth, urging him to return. Gripping his cock, he guides it to your entrance and remains poised there, arms taught and legs shaking with the effort of not thrusting into your searing warmth. The head presses firmly, insistently, at your folds, and you grind your hips into him just enough for the curve of his cockhead to ease inside. 

One of your hands falls from his ribs, fisting in the sheets as you arch your back in pleasure. He, too, grunts at the invasion, eyelashes fluttering for just a moment before he regains his composure. Pulling his hips back, the head of his cock retreats from your cunt, and you slap the mattress in frustration. 

‘I need you inside me, Chanyeol, I feel like I’m going crazy.’ 

‘Baby,’ he chastises. His tone is admonishing, a punishment for your overeager hips and back talk, asserting his dominance once again. Shifting the conversation back to the original topic, he hums in consideration. ‘You’re rushing us out of heaven.’

A double entendre, rich with implication. There is paradise in ensuring you crave him so desperately your body becomes a cavern of longing. There is paradise in taking your time, in ensuring you feel every vein and silken fold of his cock as it slides over your slit. There is, you are sure, an infinite amount of moments between this moment, the one where you are aching for him so horribly you fear you might crumble, and the distant next; an infinite expanse of seconds between this bed and the four poster frame of the one in your apartment. 

Heaven is exactly where his body touches yours, a line of fit across your senses, but you think heaven looks better from the inside. Heaven is when you wear him with pride. 

‘Then keep me in it.’

There have been several times in your relationship in which you have been able to take him, the full length and girth of him, without preparation from his fingers or any of the myriad of toys you have bought together. Those times, you wanted the stretch to hurt, wanted the burn and the unyielding firmness of his erection to be buried so deep inside you, the heaviness of his cock would become as one with your bones. Those times, you needed the pain to fold into pleasure, needed the tears at your eyes to morph into tears of transcendence. Your language would bleed into a language of limbs, not names, a coupling so raw and rough your coupling would sting as splinters.

You want to take him this way now, certain your core is still open and stretched from his cock hours earlier. You will take him this way now, regardless that you both still wear the exhaustion of your intense session in the red bags that rest under your eyes, but you do not care. You will have him this way, because you need him. You will hold him in your hands, because you have hands, and you will love him into a benediction, because he is your wildfire.

Relinquishing your hold on the sheets, you walk both your hands down the slope of his spine, reminding yourself not to linger on the muscles that cling to his bones. They ripple beneath your touch, a strain of tension and a shiver of lust that has him trembling against you, rocking into you like a ship in the night. Your joints ache to feel him, to massage his weary muscles until he can no longer survive the earthquake of your caress, but you have needed him for too long. Instead, you continue on your journey to the curved muscles of his ass, where you grip him firmly, laughing as a menace at the way his eyes widen in understanding. 

Digging your nails into the supple sinew, you clutch his ass and push his hips forward, guiding his cock through your entrance with a laugh of relief. The hand that had been at his cock slips for purchase, gripping the sheets beside your waist as he groans in shock. You take him in to the hilt, until there is no distance between your folds and the press of his balls at your ass. Held flat against you, he squeezes his eyes shut and you arch upward, presenting your breasts to the summer sky, waiting for the sun to kiss them, too. 

Chanyeol’s breath falls hard and heavy, a wet exclamation of lust that has him quivering down to his very nerves. In an attempt to regain his control, the hand that had remained on your hip reaches back to clutch your knee, the pads of his fingered stroking the skin as he bends your leg back and back, changing the angle for you to take him even deeper. The solid thickness of his cock brings with it a stretch of pain that instantly transmutes into divine pleasure, all of you flush and full with him. 

This sort of relief is bone deep, an expression of relief that empties your eyes of all things that are not him. You are certain you appear dazed, drunk, mind and spirit drifting elsewhere beyond your corporal form. Perhaps it is an expression of hunger, though you know it is nothing as simple or human as that - your appetite for him extends into something primal, a carnal craving that keeps your mouth wet and teeth slick with the essence and fiber of him.

Still, the private sole delight of this is short lived, as Chanyeol scratches his nails into the sensitive skin behind your knee. The sensation awakens tremors down your spine, a flutter of your muscles so erratic and uncontrollable you feel as though you may break beneath his hands. This touch, alone, enough to unmake you. 

‘Chanyeol,’ you gasp, pressing your hands harder against the cheeks of his ass, massaging the flesh roughly, motions messy and uncoordinated. Your hands move of their own accord, body shaking in thirst.

You need him deeper, so much deeper, deep enough he shall live inside you, felt there until the sun turns black. 

‘You’re so perfect,’ he manages, the gravel returning to his voice though, this time, it is not born from sleep. The force of his grip on the sheets raises the veins in his arms, a sight that you feel against the veins of his cock that drag languidly against your walls as he offers a brief, shallow thrust. ‘I didn’t even need to prepare you. You’re soaked.’ 

Chanyeol’s words are clipped, hardly coherent, more a growl of aphrodisia that shatters against your body than anything else. He mirrors your expression, features adorning the same glazed look that comes from feeling his cock engulfed in the warmth of your cunt. Together, your joints and muscles shake, overcome with the pleasure of unison, an addiction neither of you have ever been able to come to terms with. It is always this intense, always this powerful, always able to steal your breath at the realization you want to swallow him, devour him, etch your name into the fabric of his DNA until there is no question your souls have been entwined. 

Glad that you are not alone in such euphoria, you clench your walls around his cock, sucking him deeper, holding him tighter, preventing him from retreating on an outward thrust. On impact, he cries out, the echo of his voice reverberating off your sternum, adrenaline in your belly giving rise to an eruption of delight as he rolls forward and presses the head of his cock to the barrier of your cervix. 

Having him this deep should hurt - perhaps, it does, but you consider this contact a sunburn, a mark born just for you. 

Chanyeol glides his hand up the sheets, still maintaining his hold and for a moment you fear they may tear, but he soon releases them. The tension does not leave his knuckles as he delivers a powerful thrust forward, taking hold of your ribs before cupping your breast in his palm.

‘Every time you do that…’ he begins, but does not finish.

Clenching your walls around him again, his voice dissolves, the start of a thought that has no end. Eyes falling closed, he swallows thickly, returning the favor with another powerful thrust, the feeling of slick juices dripping between your folds and soaking your ass giving rise to a wet slap of his balls against your skin. His cockhead is piercing, the girth of him large enough the force still makes you gasp, and you choke on your own inhale, feeling the impact of him inside you even into your blood. 

‘You mean this?’

Your whisper is a frayed, severed thing, but you clench around him one more time, wanting him to fuck himself into you so hard the dawn will live behind your eyes and not over the hills of Italy. 

‘Fuck,’ he chastises, scratching his nails into the soft sinew of your beast. The marks of his nails leave a trail of stinging pain against your senses, blossoming almost instantly, and you are glad for them, glad that you will wear this coupling for days. ‘Every time you do that it makes me feel like I’m going to cum sooner than I want to.’

Offering him a teasing pout, you lift one hand from his ass, letting the air cool his skin in the absence. Chanyeol only just registers the lack, an expression of brief sadness swimming in his eyes before you bring the flat of your palm down quickly, slapping roughly in playful encouragement. Surprised by the force, Chanyeol thrusts into you, hips stuttering in shock, and you bite your lip at the sensation of his cockhead bruising the spot inside you that has colors erupting amidst your vision. 

Catching your breath, you smirk, collecting your words, your energy. ‘Then don’t waste any time.’

‘I’m going to fuck you so hard today you can’t walk,’ he determines, removing his hand from your breast to hold your hip once more, only this time the force of his touch burrows into your marrow. Chanyeol holds you so tightly, you find you are bracing for a shock wave of unyielding, forceful thrusts. ‘You’re spending the day in this bed, on my cock. Every time you breathe, I want you to feel me there.’ 

Setting an unrelenting pace, Chanyeol thrusts into you with vigor, each thrust sharp and powerful enough the blunt head of his cock touches on the bruises he left the night before. With each motion of his hips, your legs take to shaking, muscles straining with the effort of meeting him to have his balls slap harshly against your skin. His hand remains at your knee, stroking in rhythm with his thrusts at the tendons, and through your profound pleasure, you hear the high pitched whimpers of your voice. 

The back of your knees are an erogenous zone unique, you suppose, only to you. Until Chanyeol, they had remained untouched, unfelt, a source of earth shattering arousal completely abandoned. On your seventh date, he undressed you slowly, the intent of having you spent and sweating evident in the way his fingers took their time tracing every piece of your exposed flesh. He’d told you to stand still, told you to let him adore you, and as he pulled your underwear down your thighs, following the fabric with his lips, you had fallen forward to grip the edge of his dresser, eyes wide in shock. 

Over and over he had kissed the skin, let his teeth graze at it until you were dripping, until he was certain he could taste your juices from all of your pores. He is equally as relentless now, stroking the skin over and over until your throat has grown raw from rasping through parted lips.

This pleasure, you know, is yours, all for you. He prefers it when you are on top, when your thighs straddle his hips, when your breasts are in both his hands, the cheeks of your ass ready to be palmed - the whole of you born into a playground. With him on top of you, this is your heaven, and your voice raises in volume, an exclamation of sanctity not unlike a prayer.

You do not care who hears you. Lake Como is not as secluded as tourists would have you believe, and the bedroom of this villa looks out over a walkway that leads to the shore. The village is peopled, the houses are products of lives in the processes of being lived, and you want everyone, every creature, to know that you have learned to eat the dawn. You, and no one else, are the horizon the sun has chosen to ignite.

Bending forward, Chanyeol buries his face into the skin of your neck, breath hot and heavy as he laps at your skin. The smell of him, all around you, is intoxicating, another rush of arousal into your core that has you clenching around him. Eyes watering, you focus your attention on every detail of this precise moment - his shampoo, the veins of his cock against your walls, the stretch that has you rolling up into him hungry, desperate, for more; the way Chanyeol, in all his glory, thrusts into you hard enough he demands that you tear him at the seams. 

Adjusting your hips to widen your legs just slightly, you take him in ever deeper, and he groans into your pulse. In this single moment of ecstasy, you watch the dawn fully break through his window, the first golden beams of morning light spilling over his skin, and for a moment, you feel as though you are fucking the sun, holding fire and gold and magic in your hands, eyes watering as tears of lust and love and pleasure build in your eyes.

‘I’m going to cum inside you,’ he whispers, the words little more than a graze of his tongue.

‘ _Good_ ,’ is your reply, a breath of wind that flutters in his hair.

Your orgasm burns in your belly, a weight to his statement that has your mind fogging with little else than the thought of your body full of him to the brim. The coil of your muscles tightens, a tension that worms its way into your spine, your thighs, your chest. This orgasm means to take you, unmake you; it means to burn you from the inside out, and you welcome this, deciding that, for him, you will become a phoenix.

It will not be the first time he has spilled himself in you, but it will be just as magnificent. 

‘I’m going to cum inside you,’ he continues, as though you have not replied at all, ‘and you’re going to keep it there.’ He pauses in his thrusts at your entrance, the emptiness inside you cavernous and tragic. Whimpering, you work your hands up to his waist, clinging to him in desperation, wanting him back, wanting him always. ‘Don’t let a single drop out. Be good, and say you won’t.’

Shaking your head against the pillow, you wiggle your hips, aware that your efforts will be futile unless you agree. ‘I won’t.’ 

You want nothing more than this, want nothing more than you feel the heat of his cum fill your womb, your walls, your cunt, and held there. As the sun moves through the sky, you will cling to it, lock it inside you, learning to never let it go again. 

In celebration of your acquiescence, Chanyeol presses the head of his cock back through your slit, the thrust of his return painfully slow. At this speed, you feel absolutely everything as the veins and thickness of his cock separate your walls, dragging against the nerves with decadent slowness. 

‘Gonna cum so deep inside you,’ another smear of breath against your skin, words spoken into your pores, directly into your heart, ‘you’ll leave Italy already pregnant.’ 

As he finishes his sentence, he thrusts forward roughly, sending you gliding back against the pillows and up along the bed, inching backward as though your body is in awe of his power. You’ve spoken about this - about a family, a future, an impending forever in which your bloodline will continue for generations, leaves on a tree that will germinate long after you are gone, but neither of you are ready. It is something you speak about, something you think about, an indeterminate point that carries neither pressure nor strain, reduced to a possibility of life among the much grander notion of living.

But now, in this moment, with the sun revealing all the liminal spaces your lives together will consume; with the light breaking over and against him, the warmth of his breath, the penetrating thrusts against your cervix, demanding entry, you are able to perfectly envision the reality of it. You, swollen and full, heavy with his child, carrying your family home; a product of bliss, a womb full of his blood, your blood, one and the same, and you are suddenly, wholly invigorated. Rolling your hips upward, you meet his thrusts and let the wet sounds of your juices mix with the pants of his breath at your neck, enthusiastic in your yearning for your belly taught with his child. 

‘You like that?’ Chanyeol laughs against your skin, impish and merciless. ‘Want me to fill you up, fuck a baby into you?’

‘Yes, Chan.’ He feels your vigorous nodding against his ear, your fingers at his spine pressing into the nodes as your cunt hungrily sucks him in, and in, and in. ‘Fill me up.’

Releasing his hand from your hip, he slips it between your bodies, finding your clit with a swiftness that comes from years of knowing every nuance of your body. Swirling his fingers over the swollen bud in messy circles, he uses the pad of his index finger to tap a patternless rhythm that has you keening in anticipation. The erratic, unpredictable motions have you clenching - this time without your control, your orgasm looming dangerously close. 

‘I’m gonna -’ The affirmation of your impending orgasm vanishes, a hard thrust against your cervix leaving you winded. ‘Oh, fuck, Chan.’

Closing your thighs around him, your whole body tightens, shaking and convulsing with the force of holding back your climax. The bergamot of his cologne, the veins of his cock, the way he whimpers into your neck all nestle into the roots of your veins, blood hot and burning with the essence of him, your husband. Lips turning chapped from your heavy breaths, tongue wet and all the rest of you utterly parched for the rain that is his cum inside walls, your orgasm winds itself at the base of your spine, a fog entering your mind that leaves you dazed and monstrous. 

‘I’m close baby,’ he cries, the promise of his own impending climax a plea of defeat. ‘I told you I’d not last long.’ 

In punishment, in retribution - both one and the same - he presses his fingers roughly against your clit, his figure eights turning rough. The bed battles the wall, a music that fills your ears and is certain to emanate from your open window to the grassy field below. And you, mouth open and heart open, drag your nails down his spine, the sheer immensity of your orgasm turning melting your lungs down.

‘Let me cum,’ you murmur. ‘Please, I need -’

Executing a powerful thrust directly to your spot, Chanyeol relentlessly swirls his fingers over your clit as your orgasm erupts through your veins. All morning you have been watching gold overtake the walls of the bedroom. All morning, you have watched dawn break against the earth, shades of vermilion eating the edges of an Italian sun, only for these colours to burst in your vision, enacted by his hand. His name lives on your lips, thighs shuddering as your walls clench erratically around his cock, milking him and demanding that he cum with you. 

Your hands cling to his skin, gripping all they can in your palms as you feel his spine quake with urgency. Along your skin, your nerves are overcome with a sensitivity to the very world around you. Gooseflesh raises on your arms, waist, and thighs as gravity releases you from its hold, orgasm rippling through your blood as you offer up his name in prayer and in flight. 

The world continues to burn, all embers and sunlight, as his orgasm overtakes his thrusts. He spills inside you, fire hot and overflowing, his cum demanding entrance to your womb as your walls continue to milk him dry. Burying his face in your neck, he cums silently, quietly - a sign his orgasm has overwhelmed him. Chanyeol is always the first to noise, a cacophony of sound and music, heard before he is often felt, and so his silent exclamation of your name into your skin is an admission you have shattered him, rendered him naked all the way down to his spirit. 

Together, you quake beneath the sheets, your hands massaging his arms and shoulders as the aftermath of your orgasm sends tremors through your veins. Chanyeol removes his hand from your knee, reaching to cup your cheek, your hair, touching what he can to tether himself back to the earth, certain he is drifting. This, you think, is always your favorite part, the silence that follows in which you both succumb to the nature and truth of your love. Your love, a cataclysm that leaves your bones undone, no room for mortal flesh and only the whispers of your souls left behind.

As his cock softens inside you, the first drips of his cum begin to leak from you and onto the bed, a sensation that has you grimacing. You wait for his admonishment, removing your hand from his back to stroke, instead, at the strands of his hair that have become damp with sweat. You had not noticed it. So, too, does your hairline glisten with moisture, arms and hands adopting a sheen that was not there when the sun first grazed the sky. Gently, you caress his hair, letting your hand bump against his ear from time to time, waiting expectantly. 

But it does not come.

In the after, Chanyeol’s breath turns soft, even, his hold on your hip easing ever slightly as his other fists in your hair, needy and reverent. Glancing down, you see his lips folded into a soft pout, eyes closed and lashes long against his cheeks. He’s fallen back asleep, listening, as he so often does, to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. 

In the days before Chanyeol, you had coveted the dawn, believing that it should only come once in a day, a moment of fleeting beauty that carried a magic for those who chose to wait for it. Now, you let your eyes fall closed, joining him in slumber, aware that the dawn lives in your arms, and he wakes, and rises, beside you. 

Forever.


End file.
